


Even So

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Baseball, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 17:38:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10904241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: “You’re wearing my hoodie.”





	Even So

**Author's Note:**

> 'pick one of three prompts' i choose all 3 lmao (just according to keikaku probably)
> 
> baseball aomido + pond behind the high school

The sun gets lower too quick in the sky; it’s nearly dark by the time they exit the convenience store and Aomine’s not the only one affected by the cold nipping the air. Midorima opens up the can of hot shiruko and takes a sip; the warmth spread through him instantly. Aomine, bag of snacks dangling from his wrist, shoves his hands into the pocket on his hoodie. Well, Midorima’s hoodie, the significance of which is not lost on Midorima.

He steals another glance as they walk, at the sleeves pushed up just to let Aomine cover his hands with the cuffs, the way the hoodie hangs loose on Aomine’s frame. It looks good on him, and it’s not just the fit or the color. It’s the way a different warmth than the one from his drink fills up Midorima, lower in his body, his possessive side sparking in triumph, that Aomine’s wearing Midorima’s hoodie means he’s Midorima’s. Midorima steals another glance; the warmth settles inside of him. This time Aomine catches his eye and quirks an eyebrow.

“What’s up?”

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he blurts out; that’s not how he’d wanted to say it but maybe this is one of those things Aomine gets.

“Oh?” says Aomine. “Do you want it back?”

Midorima shakes his head. “It looks good on you.”

“Good,” says Aomine. “I’m not giving it back.”

Midorima huffs, out of principle; he’s not done growing and it’s hard to find clothes that don’t ride up on his torso or that have sleeves that end below his wrists. And, well, taking it back from Aomine might be the closest he’s going to get to being able to steal Aomine’s clothes for himself (wearing Aomine’s jersey those few times doesn’t count, especially since he can’t just casually wear that around).

“Just don’t steal all of my clothes,” Midorima says.

Aomine grins. “Will do.”

There’s a field behind the main classroom building, dotted with a few trees and a frog pond (Midorima vividly recalls Sakurai picking up a frog to show Momoi how cute it was and making her shriek and hide behind a tree; Sakurai had dropped the poor frog back into the pond and ran over to apologize ) that this time of year is quiet. Instead of heading right back to the dorms, Aomine walks toward the pond, and Midorima follows.

They sit at the edge of the water, keeping their shoes on this time (who knows how cold it is). Aomine drops his arm around Midorima’s shoulders and Midorima moves a little closer; Aomine moves even closer in response, like he’s about to sit in Midorima’s lap. (Does he want to? Does Midorima want him to? Would that even work like this?)

“I’m cold, Shintarou.”

Aomine’s whining; it should be unattractive (and Midorima pretends it is, but Aomine keeps doing it). And, well, even if it were, there’s the fact that Aomine had called him by his first name again (he keeps doing it, and Midorima can’t fight off the heat in his cheeks—he’s not ready to use Aomine’s first name, but the more Aomine does this, the more he thinks he might be sometime soon). Midorima shifts away from Aomine, giving himself room to settle into sitting cross-legged (it’s going to hurt his knees sooner or later, but not right away).

“Here,” says Midorima.

The smile on Aomine’s face is absolutely worth it; he’s there in half a second (he’s heavy, but he fits, back to Midorima’s chest, the brim of his backwards cap briefly hitting into Midorima’s shoulder before he adjusts it). He smells like milky coffee and shampoo, and the soft rhythm of his breathing is the way it always is, putting Midorima more at ease. Aomine leans back against Midorima and pulls a baseball out of the pocket of his hoodie. Typical, but Midorima smiles as he watches Aomine cycle through the different grips, fastball to curve to slider to shuuto back to curve to something Midorima’s not sure is even a pitch at all (though with Aomine he can never be certain). After a while, he seems to get tired of it, and presses the ball into Midorima’s palm.

“Want to try, Babe?”

Midorima looks at the taping on his fingers and wrinkles his nose. It’s impossible to get a good grip, and in a real game his fingers would be bare. He’s not going to mess up his grip, but he’s not ready to remove his taping out in the cold when he’s sitting on the grass. He holds the ball, tiny in his palm.

“Not with the taping,” Midorima says.

“Okay,” says Aomine.

He covers the other side of the ball with his palm and Midorima lets him take it, relishing in the feeling of Aomine’s rough fingers as they brush the bare sides of his hand. He drops it back into his pocket and twists his head to kiss the underside of Midorima’s chin.

They walk back to the dorm in comfortable silence, the back of Aomine’s hand occasionally brushing the back of Midorima’s. Midorima sits down on the bed when they get back in, stretching his legs as Aomine turns on the heater. The light from Midorima’s desk lamp isn’t as harsh as the overhead; it illuminates just the right parts of Aomine, the shape of his ass in baggy jeans, the line of his neck and his jaw, the half-smirk on his face when he turns around. The bag of snacks lies untouched on Aomine’s desk, but Midorima’s not particularly hungry right now. Midorima begins to unravel the tape on his left hand, slow and methodical; Aomine watches with interest (sometimes it seems like he’s going to ask if he can do it himself; sometimes Midorima wants to ask him to). He inspects each uncovered nail (they don’t need to be filed down further until tomorrow probably) and once he’s done, holds out his hand. Aomine places the baseball in it, and Midorima hefts the familiar weight as Aomine sits down beside him and wraps an arm around Midorima’s waist. And then, without warning, he pulls back, dragging both of them farther onto the bed, and lies down, so he’s halfway into spooning Midorima.

“Come on, up,” Aomine says, and Midorima obliges, tucking his legs onto the end of the bed, bent at the knees to make them fit and to give Aomine more room.

Aomine kisses Midorima’s ear and worms his hand under Midorima’s sweater, beginning to untuck his shirt.

“Should I do this or not?” Midorima says, gesturing with his left hand.

“Aw, Babe,” says Aomine. “I just want to touch you. It’s not foreplay unless you want it to be.”

(And, well, once his hand is up Midorima’s shirt and pressed against his stomach, he doesn’t move it or seem to be going anywhere further, and, well, that kind of skin-to-skin contact feels really good.)

Midorima closes his eyes (it’s harder to grip when he’s looking). Fastball, sinker, curve, back. Again. The third time through, he remembers he ought to be practicing the cutter grip now if he’s ever going to throw the pitch in a game, and adds that. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Shintarou.”

“Yes?”

“Is that a cutter?”

“Yes,” says Midorima, trying to keep his voice even.

“You’re throwing a cutter?”

“I haven’t exactly thrown it yet,” says Midorima. “I just thought—I might want to add another pitch. And this would be a good one.”

His face heats up again; Aomine’s thumb brushes across his ribs and Midorima sighs.

“It’s not going to be ready for a while.”

“I know,” says Aomine, kissing his ear again. “But—can I see it? When you do decide to throw it?”

Midorima’s first instinct is to say no, that he doesn’t want to show it to him until it’s ready, until it’s impressive and worthy. But isn’t he past that point (if he’d ever been there) with Aomine? Aomine’s always given the best baseball advice, and Midorima trusts his input more than he trusts that of any coach. And that’s his answer, isn’t it?

“Yes,” says Midorima.

“Thank you,” says Aomine. “I’m really glad.”

And he knows, without Midorima even saying it, how much it really means—of course he does; he’s a pitcher; he’s Aomine, but even so. The same warmth spreads through Midorima, like everything from a hot drink or the sight of Aomine in his hoodie combined and then some.


End file.
